Christmas 1980
Eugene Hunt was nine years old during the release of the brand new third incarnation of the sensational Ford saloon, he wished for a Corgi 334 Ford Escort Europe as he had the 402 and 313 Ford Cortina MkIII GXL some years back. He dreamt of being a Detective Chief Inspector like his father Steven of Greater Manchester Police CID who regularly drives plus owning the blue oval's top of the range cars before anyone else did.
Gene was tasked with buying some tins of Macintosh's (Nestle) Quality Street and Cadbury Roses as his mum Mary always tried to make the festive month special for her two boys; he stood on the faded lime green mat, it had seen better days with a brown teddy designed on it. Peterson's Toys shop had been owned by the same family for generations. No one could blame Gene for having a sneaky peek at one of his Christmas presents, could they?
There it was a shop full of delights, tasters of nine year old heaven. He may have back chatted the grown ups, got into the odd fight at school, snuck games on to the school computers, terrorised babysitters or neighbours and threw a brick through someone's window if they deserved it; but shoplifting wasn't high on young Gene's priorities as the little area he so proudly named his gut instinct told him. Everyone in Manchester was getting ready for Father Christmas to come to town.
Boys were eagerly gazing at model cars, Raleigh Grifters, Burners or Choppers, various Star Wars figurines, Action Man and Matchbox Power Track with some children whooping or giggling as the cars occasionally derailed out of control on the track. Girls preferred ponies, dolls, Girls World styling heads, writer's stationary, typewriters or Cadson miniature cash registers as anticipation and longing hung in the air as Christmas would be fourteen days away.
Nobody noticed the small dark and handsome boy in the shop as he raked his eyes among the toy police stations; two boys were arguing over a toy Chevrolet Caprice Taxi; threatening to break into a fight any moment now.
Two parents separated the brawling boys sternly atoning "Right, neither of you can have the Chevy taxi as you've been unashamedly naughty little boys; why you ought to be ashamed of yourselves!" The toy marked 327 was swiftly returned to its place promptly as two five year olds moaned in protest annoyed at their mothers for removing their toy taxi which would have been theirs.
Gene walked over to the Corgi section as he snuck a rectangular box with 334 written on it into his small shell suit, as this was exactly the car he so desperately wished for as he seen the full sized version advertised by Ford on the television.
"Yes!" he felt triumphal placing the metallic green Escort inside his shell suit, as the Christmas toy shop window display distracted the manager who was busy putting up the red, white and green bunting as the finishing touches were almost complete.
This would be nine year old Gene Hunt's newest set of wheels as he drooled over the folding beige front seats and opening doors; the scum of Manchester were getting cars that went super fast, he would imagine himself behind the black steering wheel catching criminals like his father does and would show it off to anyone possible; he'd only let Stewart play with the Escort by special invitation.
The young Gene Hunt left the shop with the Escort close to his heart, when a Peterson's Toys security guard gave chase "Oi!" he shouted to alarm, pushing past shoppers in the High Street until reaching a main road; the WPC managed to stop him from getting ran over by a massive red Commer Royal Mail Post Office van travelling to the sorting office near the bus depot.
"Stop, young man!" WPC Cartwright shouted as she caught the nine year old held in a vice like grip on his hand.
"Let go of me!" yelled Gene bemused his plan was scuppered in tracks by a Woman's Police Constable famous for preventing stray children from getting inside busy roads where cars would rush by on the zebra crossing.
A plod wrestled the heart broken little boy on to the ground, when a security guard and crowds of High Street shoppers gathered - after all it takes a community to raise a child; he'd unzipped young Gene's miniature shell suit and held the see through polythene box in the winter sun light.
Gossip ensured "I would have given him the old what for! No discipline! Mother and father should be ashamed of themselves! I know his father is the DCI and I'd tell him all about what his junior had been up to!" muttered the ladies wearing warm coats, jumpers, hats and scarves featuring a variety of patterns.
Gene was hauled up by PC McKay to the Peterson's toy shop; panting, yelping and writhing for all it was worth. It was the only thing he could do to not break out into a temper tantrum over the injustice of it all.
The toy shop lady clerk Mrs Lawson was handed the toy Escort, young Gene had attempted to shoplift.
"Lad had been caught taking this," the plod banged the car on the till table he gruffly growled like a grizzly bear in police uniform.
"I'll send him to the manager's office, he's a friend of your Superintendent thank you sir." she said tutting at the Manchurian boy stood in front of her.
The manager wasn't half pleased to be diverted from his game of darts when she informed Mr. Orson about the incident as he tossed red darts at the rounded board.
"Excuse me, sir. This young boy had been caught taking one of our stock." The manager wiped his brow in dealing with another child who'd take from his family owned toy shop dabbing a hankerchief.
"Haven't you been taught by your parents, that you must pay for toys and you're not allowed to just take them?"
"Yes, sir." Gene shuffled his trainers looking down at the maroon carpet in shame; in which he's been caught red handed.
"Perhaps you could explain to the arriving officers about what happened?" Mr Orson austerely asked the nine year old.
"Please don't tell my mummy or daddy!" begged the skinny blue eyed Manchester boy.
"We will have to call your father DCI Steven Hunt," he seriously and firmly instated "as he'll have to be aware you've been a naughty little boy."
Young Gene shouted "I always am, even when I been good." in protest over what the finely combed male manager informed him, his hair Brycreemed into a short sides and back wearing a grey suit and diamond pattern kipper tie in red and purple.
"No!" he screamed having a paddy over his coveted Ford Escort MkIII causing the babies and toddlers to cry severely at the silence glooming in the main shop arena.
"Would you like a tissue?" asked Mrs Lawson almost bending down to Gene's height.
"I don't need help! Not a charity case!" Gene swiped his eyes hard in a smack motion.
"Calm down young sir, I was only offering you some help," the woman softly whispered.
Mr Orson rings up Detective Chief Inspector Steven Hunt at Greater Manchester Police CID, he had seen many a child shoplifter during the Christmassy month for reasons such as poverty, in local authority children's homes or just plain naughty over his 12 years in the position. He was one of the youngest ever promoted in 1968.
The dial whirrs round and back again as Gene father's number was dialled on a white rotary telephone one by one.
Mrs Lawson informed him "I'm sorry to interrupt you whilst on duty, but I'm afraid I have to inform you sir," she wept herself "we've caught your elder son shoplifting a new Ford Escort in our toy shop," happiness eradicating "Please could you come, collect and discipline your son, please Sir?"
"Will do, I'll fire up the Ford, grease me up with chip oil, Diana Dors and collect me Eugene." he answered and the phone clicks.
DI Sam Williams asked "This isn't about your elder son stealing from toy shops again? I still unfortunately remember the last incident," he seriously implied "three years ago when he took a Ford Cortina MkIII police car."
The older, broadly built and much taller male replied "Yeah, no matter how many times I have a word with him; he still does this." he icily stared at his desk full of Wimpy wrappers, manila folders, bars of Curlywurly and disposable coffee cups everywhere on the Formica surface. "He should know I'm the law and Sheriff of Manchester, beginning to think it's more than just a phase," heading for the Ford wearing his iconic and infamous camel coat and patented cream loafers from Next for Men.
The Ford in question was an angular boxy shaped saloon wearing Ghia rims, built in Germany, Cologne and a block black grille, it could only be the Ford Granada MkII 2.8 S in silver as it roared through the cobbled streets of Manchester eventually targeting an empty space near Peterson's Toys neatly parking with ease. It looked incredibly futuristic as the car screamed Eighties nearly early Nineties; compared to bread and butter Ford Cortinas, Morris Marinas, Austin Maxis, Minis and Hillman/Chrysler Avengers parked on the ends.
The young mirror image of DCI Steve Hunt yelled and snarled "Piss off!" as two shoppers restrained him safely "Get off, you're bigger than me!"
"Hey, hey!" one reasoned "Your temper tantrums will keep getting you into trouble, if you don't learn how to control it." looking after young Gene until his own father arrived at the shop door with the bell ringing.
Gene could just about make out his father wearing a brown camel coat, a purple collared T-Shirt and royal blue tie; staring him down in derision holding a police radio in his left hand.
The security guard pushed him towards his police officer father commanding "Is this your little boy?"
"Yep, that's me little Eugene," stated DCI Steven Hunt who promptly picked up his son and held him at arms length, carting his son to the silver futuristic Ford saloon "I thought Mum told you to get tins of chocolate in for our coffee table?" disappointedly as Gene blew raspberries and spat at him, trying to break free but the giant kept him pinned firmly to his upper torso.
WPC Cartwright opened the rear right door "Thanks, love for opening the door, at least I don't have to carry my junior across the high street for t' car."
Gene sulks and frowns behind his father's driving seat with an angry look through the rear windows "As if having presents wasn't enough on my Christmas!" seemly in horribly familiar fashion.
The blue Rover SD1 driver snorted at two colleagues trying to suggest Annie Cartwright's mother does the downhill racer behind the local Tiverton Playgroup, she ignored their lewd and sexual comments. DS Ray Carling with the 70s porno moustache and perm smirked "Right, a very naughty one we've got here! Guv suggests a night in the cells; will make him think twice about shoplifting toys."
DCI Steven Hunt wouldn't take too kindly to his own son interrupting him whilst driving, so Gene wisely shut up sat on the black seats which had built in headrests and rear seatbelts integrated as well as front. The Ford cassette player was playing in the background as the Pinto engine hummed quietly. "I know you asked Father Christmas for that new Corgi Ford Escort, but taking isn't the way to do it," he sighed sadly "Why don't you have a think about how you can make it up to your big old dad." driving miles to Greater Manchester Police CID, with Gene facing an empty Escort less black hole.
Steven tooted the horn impatiently when he got caught short in a traffic jam heaving to burst with Christmas shoppers taking their steady slow time on the roads, teenagers listening to their portable Sony Walkman music players and pedestrians disregarding the Green Cross Code. "Get out of my Ford Granny's way or I'll ram your buttocks into a barbecue, this isn't the Winter Wonderland pop up funfairs!" he bellowed out of the opened electric driver's window.
Outside the grey concrete 1960s Greater Manchester Police CID building with its trillions of windows imposing; Steve opened the door to let son Gene out of his new Ford; but only got token glimpses of the Ford Escort MkII, MkIII, Capri, Granada, Austin Metro and Rover SD1 panda cars sitting outside the main entrance in ascending order.
In the old former GMP pool car park there sat the sorry looking ageing ancient bangers mostly unmarked; a white Ford Cortina MkIII GT, bronze Austin Allegro, two Vauxhall Viva HB/HC in abysmal shades of green poo, Rover P6 in metallic purple, Triumph Dolomite in yellow; being various used states and an extremely rusty Ford Transit Mk1 Crew Bus wearing the older dark blue colour and livery; all sad reminders of the previous decade as age caught up with them, cars like this usually nine times out of ten spent their last days on council estates after being sold on to members of the Joe Public or you'd find them in the hands of police car fanatics who'd painstakingly restore those cars to their former glory. Sometimes they'd get used by the police until said cars were ran into the ground or taken to scrapyards.
"Go on my son, you know the drill." the Detective Chief Inspector gestured to Sargent Phyllis Dobb's custody desk situated at the main entrance.
Steven Hunt put the 334 Corgi Ford Escort Europe on her desk, a stern looking lady through her glasses in the glare of overhead lights could pick out the Detective Chief Inspector's son easily as she looked like she'd been sucking orange and cheese cubes together "My junior's been caught stealing this."
"Did he now? And what's your name young master?" asked the uniform wearing older lady with her brown brunette hair tied up into a beehive.
"Eugene Hunt," said the nine year old Gene Hunt who still used the formal and full version of his name.
"And how old are you?" The next question asked.
"Nine," replied Gene coolly.
"Getting a bit old to be snatching toys, aren't we? That's what two year old babies do!" teased DS Ray Carling with a smirk and laugh on his face.
"And what's your mother's phone number and address?" asked a seventeen year old Detective Constable Collin Skelton.
Gene writes the number and home address down in the cursive script he had just been taught in school during handwriting practise lessons.
"Thank you," said DS Phyllis Dobbs who took the piece of paper and black ball point pen from the little boy immediately.
"Any cells for our Guv's ankle biter?!" snarled DS Ray Carling "Scare him straight and put the fear of God into the little Gene Genie?"
"Cell 5," said Phyllis Dobbs doubtfully "Three are requiring cleaning due t' chips and curry thrown by previous detainees."
"Thanks, Phyllis," said DI Sam Williams "Come along, young sir." as he walked Gene into the custody suite.
"Have a think about how you can improve your behaviour, Gene and your father will be free in a few minutes to have a little chat with you." said DCI Steven Hunt's right hand man as he had quite a odd couple relationship with the boy's father in the station.
Gene rested on the bed imagining driving the brand new Ford Escort MkIII around the streets of Manchester catching burglars, bank robbers and all of the shady characters his father always warned him about.
One the officers walked to Cell Five informing him "The guv will be wanting a word with you, my lad." he spat out attempting to intimidate Gene, but it doesn't faze him as made in his father's image he was. He knew DCI's had far more important jobs like catching serial killers, drug pushers, murders and robbers. Gene thought his father wouldn't be interested in petty two bit crime like this particular one.
DCI Steven Hunt took his elder son to the Lost & Found room for an interview by the hand.
He sat down at a battered old pine table with icy blue eyes, a Player's No. 10 smouldering between his fingers; here was DCI Steven Hunt observing his son surrounded by shelves of random articles, grey smoke hanging on the ceiling next to DI Williams black notebook, pens and tape recorder.
"I'm pretty sure I told you before Eugene, you mustn't take toys without paying," he firmly scolded "So why did you take the toy Ford Escort?"
Gene quietly replied to his father "I really wanted it and I didn't have any pocket money on me." DCI Steven Hunt was stunned by his nine year old son's confession.
"Oh you silly boy, Eugene!" he said in shock "It's nearly Christmas, what about your presents me and Mum got you? You didn't want any or knew that Father Christmas might forfeit some after your string of bad behaviour in school?" prompted DCI Steven Hunt since he wanted his own son to answer the question asked of him.
The young Gene Hunt laughed in raptures over the full version of his name being used, thinking it was hilarious.
"This is serious son, shoplifting is why shopkeepers have to put their prices up for honest shoppers." warned Gene's police officer father.
"I know." he wept in sympathy over his infamous toy shop falling out, but thankfully didn't have tantrums unlike three years ago in 1977 aged six or seven as he'd matured a little since then. "and I'm really sorry, Daddy." thinking about how his actions affected others in that Peterson's Toys shop.
"Underneath, you're a good smashing kid aren't you; not like the bad people, criminals and such which Daddy has to catch everyday for being nonces to keep the streets of Manchester clean." Steven did similar when he was Gene's age as a result of his own father being an chronic, violent alcoholic in 1950s-60s Lancashire enduring years of beating his mother and little brother whenever he came home from the pub with his dockyard mates.
"Could I still have my 334 Corgi Ford Escort for Christmas, in my stocking?" asked Gene Hunt as his body language indicated he was apologetic for the shoplifting from Peterson's Toys.
"Here's the truce, I'll wrap it up for you Eugene, when we get home with a little message from me." said DCI Steven Hunt "It'll be something to keep you on the straight and narrow." he smiled warmly at his elder son, seeing much of himself in Gene.
DI Sam Williams helpfully suggested "Why don't you go to the canteen with WPC Anna Cartwright? And get yourself something to eat." the young boy nodded his head beaming at the thought of fish fingers, juicy meat or chicken pies, chips, jumbo sausage rolls, colourful vegetables jam packed with vitamins and the brimming puddings from a warm oven.
He had chose a Full English with a jam sponge and custard as his father ate similar in Diana's Café whenever he had to eat out due to the demands of being a copper.
Gene had polished the lot off heading towards Phyllis Dobbs custody area as the slap of loafer shoes announced somebody else's arrival her features softening for the briefest of moments before turning her attention with a detainee in a bad mood with DS Ray Carling.
"I've wrapped your present up Eugene, so let's fire up the Ford and go home." as DCI Steven Hunt walked hand in hand with his nine year old mini me.
That night Mary Hunt told Stewart "Your dad and Eugene had to be somewhere, so mind you don't disturb them watching The Professionals," as she sent Stewart up to bed as he wasn't old enough to watch the crime drama starring Lewis Collins and Martin Shaw being too gritty for a six year old to view.
Christmas Day came on the 25th of December 1980; fourteen days later and Gene's heart was thumping with anticipation as he unwrapped the paper, read the note his father had written Merry Christmas, Eugene lots of love from your Dad, "The Guv".
With the Corgi 334 Ford Escort Europe still in it's box, Gene got his wish and held it close.
THE END
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